I made it!

52 days, 3,925 miles, 14 states, California to Maine
So, here I am, at home, two days later. The scenes are fresh in my mind, but a small part of my heart will always be in the Atlantic surf where I dipped my wheel in a communal baptism with my friends, the riders. What can I say? Water changes us. The time and space between my rear wheel in the Pacific and my front wheel in the Atlantic changed me. It changed me for the better in ways that I've yet to digest. If you’ve been following the blog, you know that.

The last day started like yesterday. It was a grind. The sky was overcast. There was some light rain. The hills were still there. Then at the SAG stop, something changed. Usually the SAG is a pit stop at a gas station; fuel, water, pee, get back on the road. Today, everyone was hanging out, talking, not too anxious for the end of the day. At some point, though, we rode out together, the 20 of us who had been hanging out, resplendent in our matching red white and blue America By Bicycle cycling jerseys. We looked like a team. We were a team. People along the way clapped, honked, gave us thumbs up. We took an off-route excursion to see Exeter Academy, the first group “off-route” I can remember. Maybe it was just toadd miles to the experience. At the Rye Elementary School “holding area” our emotions bubbled up. There were hugs, kisses, pictures with friends, and heart-felt expressions of joy as we waited for the last riders to come in. It was “right” to have this happen now so that the final moments could be sheer joy and celebration. Sarge and his group rode in at 11:30, so there was half hour before we rode the last two miles. Fifteen minutes of that was devoted to the group picture; in addition to the “official” picture, there were 40 personal cameras lined up to get the shot. It took a while.

Since Sarge always cared for our “stragglers” and took upon himself to be “the last in” everyday, we chose him and Steve, Sarge’s constant companion, to lead us to the ocean. With a police escort, lights flashing with occasional blasts of the siren, we rode those last two miles, four abreast, almost exploding with joy, pride and emotion. A collective gasp rolled through the pelaton as we crested a small hill and saw the Atlantic for the first time. Applause and horns greeted us as we turned into Wallis Beach State Park, rode to the beach end of the parking lot, dismounted, and carried our bikes to the ocean. Imagine that line of cyclists carrying the bikes that had carried us so far. Then there was the dip, just the front wheel, just a kiss. No immersion for our rust-prone steeds. More hugs, more congratulations, lots of bike lifts. If I’d planned it, I’d have taken off my helmet and sunglasses, but I didn’t plan it, so I just handed off my bike and charged into the Atlantic. For me, it was a total immersion baptism. I frolicked in the waves. The water was warm. It was good to feel salt water on my skin that didn’t come from sweat. There was a bit of humility, too. As I emerged from the water, a little girl of perhaps 9 or 10 walked up to me and asked what all the commotion was about. "We just rode our bicycles from California," I answered proudly. Her reply, "Why did you do that?" There was no short sweet answer...

Somewhere in this mix were the people who love me, easy to spot by the custom green “pedaling professor” hats that Rosanne had made for the occasion. Mom just hugged and hugged with tears rolling down her face. She told me that she and Dad had prayed for my safety every day. Dad just beamed with pride. When I was a kid, he was the one who taught me how to take apart a bike and put it back together. I am so grateful to my brother Bob and my sister-in-law, Karen for bringing my folks up with them. Bob and I rode alot together when we were teenagers. Deb was my photographer and took dozens of pictures. Rosanne prepared an incredible picnic spread of cold cuts, deviled eggs, lots of cold beer, and a cake that had this blog’s featured map on it. Mike, Greg, and I toasted the ride. My cycling friends wandered over to this last congregating place and indulged in all of the above and a few last pictures.

Most of there riders stayed at the same hotel. Our support staff was out back, breaking down and boxing bikes. It was the last time to climb through the luggage pile and find mine and bring it back to my room.

I took my family and friends out to a great seafood dinner, and then climbed into bed. There were a few last fading good-byes at breakfast the next morning, and then off to our respective “real lives.” The epic journey is over. Or not. After all, it's not "all about the bike."